


We are no different.

by Anihan (Nakagami)



Series: A series of AUs. [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alien Mycroft, Alien Sherlock, Alternate Universe - Aliens, Holmes Brothers, M/M, Oblivious Sherlock, Quietly Pining Mycroft, Snippet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:01:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakagami/pseuds/Anihan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmeses are aliens. Lestrade doesn't know and says something a bit not politically correct. Sherlock whines to Mycroft about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are no different.

**Author's Note:**

> Found approximately 8k words I had written before January 10th this year. Expect AUs, people.
> 
> Also, I changed nothing in this piece except for the last word. No edits.

“Don’t act as if you sprouted out of the ground: You’re as human as the rest of us, so _start acting like it!”_

The words echo in the cold of the office despite having been said elsewhere. Sherlock flexes his forearm by squeezing a fist against his thigh. The hand shakes when he releases. He cannot stop the tremors even when he focuses, his entire mind bent to the task of holding still. _Pathetic_ , he thinks, and he can see Mycroft thinking the same thing from across the room.

Human. The man wants Sherlock to start acting _human._

While Sherlock hadn’t tried to assimilate any more than absolutely necessary, this request was unprecedented. How was he meant to act like a member of this species he had been entirely unprepared to meet in the flesh?

Mycroft’s hand twitches on the pen carefully lifted so as not to splatter ink from the archaic nib. He begins writing again without looking up, finishing his composition before the argument to follow begins in earnest. “Stop wallowing. You have been highly trained for this mission and you have lived on this planet for half of it already: Surely after twenty-two and a half years you have managed to form some manner of coping beyond infantile fits and temper tantrums?”

Sherlock doesn’t move from his position on the settee. His eyes don’t even narrow. “Being _raised_ for human contact means nothing. How am I meant to put this knowledge to use if the entirety of the species is unwilling to communicate with me?” He flexes again. The muscles in his forearm burn. The sensation is uniquely mammalian.

“An acquaintance of six weeks has seen through a decade and a half of assimilation techniques, true, but you always were better at knowing humanity rather than pretending to be a part of it. And it appears that one Gregory Lestrade is still willing to communicate with you. As such, I suggest you leave the nicotine patches on my settee and go speak with him.”

“I don’t understand it!” Sherlock rages, but he calms quickly, not having moved from his reclined position. He’s ignoring the text messages being sent to his mobile in order to focus more clearly on the problem at hand. “How am I meant to adequately meet his demands when he doesn’t believe that I have?”

“Sherlock, please.”

“No.” Sherlock is growling now, a habit he’s picked up from his study of primates, but the sound ceases suddenly when he sits upright and throws an arm wide. “I’m not on drugs but he wants me clean; I offer advice freely but he counters with a paycheque—“

Mycroft huffs, voice making a sound that would be a snort if it wasn’t _cultured_ amusement. “At least he has stopped demanding you be on the payroll in order for him to accept your advice. You haven’t deposited a single cheque.” 

Sherlock doesn’t pause to listen to his brother comments. He barrels onward, flamingly indignant. “His girlfriend cheats and he offers her a ring, Mycroft. This man is illogical at every turn. What am I meant to do by communicating with a human like that?”

 “And now he is offering you the use of his couch,” Mycroft drawls. He has picked up Sherlock’s mobile in order to rifle through the texts. “Did you make the mistake of suggesting your flat was uninhabitable?”

Sherlock launches himself across the room and slams both fists – shaking, still, in the effort to contain everything about him that was not part of it, part of the human body, the human experience – down on Mycroft’s desk. Neither one pays attention to the paperwork that flies. He’s breathing hard but he calms to utter stillness at a sudden breaking point, and he cannot stem the flow of verbalising his realization. “He sees me as I am, Mycroft. But he doesn’t want _me._ He asks for me, but he doesn’t want me.”   

Mycroft places his palms on the desk between them. His fingers slide closer, then over Sherlock’s, around his wrist and up a decimetre, settling just below Sherlock’s elbows. “Sherlock,” he says, and his tone tells him to stop complaining. Take what you can get. “At least he sees you,” he says softly, and all the air rushes out of Sherlock’s lungs at the admission.


End file.
